Precious Memories
by idiealotdontworry
Summary: People always say that memories are precious. That the times you had with people are to be treasured, and that one day, you'll look back at yourself and laugh. Rated T for language.


You straightened a stack of papers idly, done with the work which you were assigned for the day. _This job is nothing but paperwork lately_ , you think. So boring. It makes you wonder why you even signed up in the first place.

Theoretically wonder, of course. In reality, you don't have to.

You suppose your only question now is why thinking about it hurts so much, today.

Chalking it up to being tired, you drop the papers off at Awashima's desk, the stack making a soft sound when set down. She barely looks up at you, engrossed in her own work, a cup of coffee half-had on her desk. _That's right, there was another strain loose today_. Her slight gesture of gratitude spurs you to leave, and you do so, turning on your heel with nothing more than a nonchalant wave and a _yeah,_ an air of informal exhaustion surrounding the both of you.

You think you're forgetting something, but you can't bother to try and remember right now.

You make it back to your dorm, flopping down on your bed weightily. You hadn't even changed out of your work clothes, save for removing your coat and footwear, the headache rising into the backs of your eyes prompting you to leave it.

You thought about _him._ Normally, you're able to convince yourself that things are better off this way. That what happened was inevitable, and that there was no real point in staying. _He left you behind,_ you'd think. _You were only returning the favor. He deserved this._

You can't bring yourself to believe that right now. Not after what happened. Not after you saw _his_ face, wet with tears and snot, shouting a mantra to the sky that was more meaningful then than it ever had been before. His voice somehow louder than any other- or maybe that was just your imagination- hoarse and rough and _broken_.

Broken, even worse than it had been when you left. Even then, when fighting off the urge to pass out, to collapse under the weight of your own emotions, you knew you'd made a mistake.

The scenes played in your head on repeat, looping again and again.

When he 'saved' you, even though you didn't need it.

When the blimp passed over your heads, and the feeling of helpless, almost _sorrow_ that you felt, knowing you'd tried so hard at something- something you knew you had no chance at, but tried anyways.

The frustration- no- the _rage_ that came with knowing you'd failed. That you let him down.

The happiness of being around him, of knowing that when he saw you, he saw someone amazing.

The loneliness you tried to convince yourself you weren't feeling.

The hatred, burning deeper than your own hands ever could have.

People always say that memories are precious. That the times you had with people are to be treasured, and that one day, you'll look back at yourself and laugh.

You think that's bullshit.

Regret rolled over you in waves. You stared coldly, blankly at your hands, curling and uncurling your fingers methodically. No matter how hard you tried to tell yourself that it was _his_ fault, that _he_ was the one that hurt _you_ , this time, you couldn't make yourself believe it.

At times like this, you'd blame the man that took him from you. But lately, you've realized that he himself hadn't done anything wrong. Funny, how you only just accepted it. You always were stubborn.

It wasn't his fault people were attracted to him. It wasn't his fault, either, that you've always had a knack for the exact opposite.

In the end, you can only blame yourself.

He is gone, now, anyways. Self reflection can't do you any good in respects to him anymore. Somehow, despite everything, all that you'd told yourself in years past, all that you'd said about him, for a simple _reaction,_ no less. Despite all that, you couldn't shake the pain that lingered when you thought about just how quickly it all happened. How fast it all ended. _Had he cared about you after all?_

They all waited for you to catch up. But now, you can't.

You're unsure which truth hurts the most.

You feel the building's AC spur to life, and you let the newly-found cold wash over you.

You drown yourself in your thoughts, and they leave you reeling, breath hitching ever so slightly when you realize just how _pathetic_ it all is. Just how pathetic _you_ are. Had you always been this needy?

In your musings, you hadn't realized the presence nearing you. A flash of panic hits you, and you prepare yourself for _that guy's_ mocking voice to make it's way to your head.

But it never does.

Instead, another familiar, deeper voice drifts to you.

"Fushimi-kun? Are you alright?" Munakata asks, tone tentative and..concerned?

You open your eyes- when had you closed them?- and stare at your superior.

Fuck. That's what you'd been forgetting. You'd told him you'd meet him after you were done with your work. He must have gotten tired of waiting and went to look for you, the asshole.

When you don't answer, worry etches into his features, and when he reaches out to touch your shoulder, you reflexively flinch away.

"Don't," you manage, voice coming out more of a plea than a demand. He withdraws his hand, and his worry only seems to worsen. Why does he look so concerned?

He stares at you, words ready on his lips, but you speak again before he can even try.

"I'm fine." It was a lie, and a pretty bold-faced one at that. He seemed to know it, too, and you hated it.

"Why are you crying?"

The words are a surprise to you. You begin to tell him that you're not, but a gentle touch of your own face tells you otherwise. You hadn't even noticed you had gotten so upset, and it scared you how little control you had just then.

Embarrassed, you look away from him. You can't handle his gaze right now, even if it's softer than you've ever seen it before.

"I'm fine." You repeat. "It's nothing. I'm just..tired."

A pause hangs in the air, thick and nerve-wracking. He knows you're lying, and you hate the way his eyes stare into you, like he knows what you're thinking, but wants to make you say it anyways just to watch you squirm.

But he does nothing of the sort. Instead, he simply sets a cup down on your bedside table. "Our meeting can wait until tomorrow. Get some rest." You look at him, and he gives you a soft smile you can't exactly place, before quietly heading out.

He lingers at the door for only a moment, turning to say, in a voice so soft you almost can't hear it, "Don't hesitate to tell me if something is bothering you. Goodnight, Fushimi." With the soft click of the door shutting, you feel your muscles relax, even if only slightly. You take the cup of what you can now identify as tea in your hands, the warmth radiating from it making your heart hurt that much more.

As you stare into the cup's auburn contents, you think back to what Munakata said. The tone he used with you, the looks he gave. All of concern. Why?

The gentleness reminded you of something, but the unfamiliarity of the sensation leaves you without words to describe it. Confusion sticks to you disgustingly well.

With time, the tea in your hands grows cold, and you find yourself laughing humorlessly at the sheer irony of it.


End file.
